On The Knees of the Gods
by pseudo-vulture
Summary: Jim Moriarty is enjoying his retirement when Sherlock Holmes reappears in his life in the worst possible way. Now the world's only Consulting Criminal is back with a vengeance and he needs a new lieutenant. After what John Watson had been through, how could he refuse? [Dark!John] (Pre-series 3/set during series 2 hiatus)
1. Chapter 1

**Set pre-series 3 so doesn't have the plot developments that occur in and after that but does include Mary and a half-arsed explanation for the existence of that Lord Moran guy from Empty Hearse we all cheerfully ignore out of hope for a less idiotic interpretation.**

**Warnings for language and blood and possible Johniarty later on.**

**Applause and pie for anyone who gets what the title is referencing.**

* * *

"Get back soon, okay?" Jim said tiredly.

Sebastian smiled to himself, imagining Jim curled up on their sofa in jeans and one of Seb's old t-shirts like he did after every long day, phone probably on the coffee table in front of him, regretting that he wasn't there himself. "I'll be here a few more days at most. Just waiting for a verdict."

Being a lawyer was pretty interesting, Seb had to admit. He'd been more than sceptical when Jim had first given him their new identities but he was enjoying it more than he'd thought. It wasn't the thrill as he'd got as a sniper but there was a similar kind of kick about holding someone's future in your hands. Plus there was the added benefit that both he and Jim were less likely to die horribly in the new roles they played. He was thankful for that, the promise of extra time.

"Don't be too long. 'Colonel Moran'," (Sebastian could practically taste the venom as Jim spat out his brother's title) "is still nagging me to give him a bigger part in an organisation I have no control over."

"Don't worry about it, I'll deal with him when I get home."

"You better." Jim grumbled.

Seb smirked and looked up as he wandered around a corner, almost back at his hotel. It wouldn't be long until he'd finally get to see his husband again.

There was a figure stood on the path in front of him. The sniper's smile disappeared again instantly and the hand holding his phone fell to his side slowly when he saw the other man's face.

"I'd love to say I'm surprised but I'd be lying."

The other man didn't say a word. He looked pretty much the same as he always had, tall, imposing, intelligent, probably a little thinner than last time Seb had seen him. His hair was shorter and he wasn't wearing that trademark trench-coat, like that attempt at a disguise would fool anyone.

"What did you expect me to do? Give myself up instantly muttering 'you cunning, cunning fiend!'?"

The other man gave a grim smirk and shook his head and Seb heard the muted burst of a shot through a silencer.

"No. I expect you to die."

The sniper hadn't even seen the gun until he heard it, not expecting anything like that in such an open environment. When he looked down, he saw a dark rosette of blood spreading from a hole in his white shirt in his stomach. .50 bullet, if he was any judge and it had torn straight through his body and out the other side. He hadn't seen the gun but even if he was wrong he didn't stand a chance. It could take him anywhere from hours to just fifteen minutes to die from a wound like this depending on what organs it had damaged. Even if he got to a hospital they might not be able to do anything. He managed to hold off the onslaught of pain long enough to make that analysis then he fell to his knees, hitting the ground hard.

"Fuck, did you just quote James Bond at me?" He whispered, a grin forming in his lips as he fought for breath, mildly impressed despite everything. The bastard probably didn't even know he'd done it.

A strong leg kicked him back against the cobbles, the heel of the obviously expensive shoe purposefully digging into the bullet wound when he hit the floor. "Who are you working for, Moran?"

The sniper didn't speak, trying to catch his breath.

"You're dying but there's still time to hurt you." He stated, a phrase Seb could swear was familiar but couldn't place. He brought his foot down sharply again but if Seb felt it, he didn't let it show.

"_Who are you working for_?" Holmes hissed, crouching down with one foot still on Seb's stomach, obviously thinking the sniper would be more intimidated by him getting so close.

Seb just laughed through the agony in his gut, trying to play down his internal reaction. "What makes you think I'm not the boss now?"

"You're not clever enough to run anything alone."

"You really know how to flatter a guy, Holmes." People had always under-estimated him. None of them noticed his intelligence; he was a genius in his own right but he was always just the muscle in their minds, the one they feared but otherwise looked down on. Even the famous Sherlock Holmes thought he was a fucking enforcer. Only Jim had ever looked any further and Sebastian wasn't going to betray the only person alive who'd ever really known him with his dying breaths. Maybe he should go for the truth, however unbelievable it would sound.

"I'm not working for anyone. I'm not in that game any more."

"Then who were you talking to?" He sneered.

Sebastian winced slightly as he tried to move but the detective's shoe dug further into the bullet wound. "My husband, you bastard."

Holmes gave him a look of utter disbelief.

"I'm not a fucking sociopath, even if you are." He growled, spitting a thick globule of dark blood and bile in Holmes's face. The former detective jerked back, wiping his face with his sleeve then sliding the gun out from his jacket again. Sebastian felt any hope of survival he had left drain away but held on to his last few strands of defiance.

"Yeah, shoot me again, that's going to get you all the information you want." His smirk was strained and far less believable this time but that wouldn't stop him from doing it.

"If you insist." The detective gave him a cold smile and put another two bullets in his gut.

Sebastian whimpered, too weakened to suppress the pain this time. If he'd had a chance before it was gone now. Instead of saying anything else, he let himself fall back, allowing more thick blood to bubble into his mouth. He had to get rid of Holmes somehow and maybe some good could come of playing dead. The detective looked down at him, probably trying to deduce if he was faking it or not. Sebastian didn't so much as blink until he heard footsteps walking away from him, quickly but calmly. Of course he wouldn't check Seb's pulse, he wouldn't want to leave any fingerprints. That worked to his advantage for once.

When the footsteps faded he raised his phone back up to his ear, arm feeling so heavy he could barely move it.

"Seb? Are you still there?" Jim's voice was fast with badly suppressed panic.

Sebastian didn't reply for a long while, breathing heavily.

"He shot me, Jim." He said, shock leaking through his voice.

"I know, I'm looking at the street through the CCTV cameras. How bad is it?"

"_Bad_." The sniper whispered, trying to prop himself up against the wall. He'd never said that before. He'd always denied how severe his injuries were, joked about it even. Maybe this time it was because he knew that this was different and that now wasn't a good time to be dishonest.

"I called an ambulance. It's coming-"

"Don't you dare say I'll be fine." He interrupted through gritted teeth. "_Don't lie to_ _me_."

"I'd never lie to _you_, you matter too much." The younger man said quietly. When he spoke again, his voice had turned from scared to that dangerous tone it always held when dealing with an enemy. "I'm going to shatter everything he's ever known, Sebastian, I promise. I'll tear his soul apart with _my teeth_."

He smiled slightly. Even now, when he was lying, shivering, on the cold, damp street, the fingers gripping his phone going numb far faster than he'd hoped, Jim could make him smile. The only man he knew who could have done that.

"I'm sorry, James."

"So am I."

"You… you better not forget me." He coughed hoarsely, blood spraying onto his shirt.

"Not even if I wanted to." Jim whispered. Seb would miss that, the sound of his soft Dublin drawl right next to his ear at night. "Sleep well, Tiger. You've fought long enough."

Sebastian nodded slowly. He swallowed, throat suddenly dry. He was sure it hadn't been this cold a minute ago.

"Fuck." He whispered. "Jim, I…"

…

The sentence wasn't finished, and never would be in this world.

It left James Moriarty with only traffic sound which he listened to for a full minute before sitting up very slowly. He stared at the phone again for a while, as if considering whether to throw it at something then carefully touched the 'end call' button instead, hand shaking.

The Consulting Criminal stood up slowly, a deathly still replacing the tremors from only seconds before. The humanity drained from his dark eyes. Someone would pay for this.


	2. Chapter 2

John had had a very long day. Full of irritating patients wasting his time with non-existent illnesses and over-reactions, all except for his last appointment of the day who had thrown up all over his second-favourite jumper. Unfortunately, days like this seemed to have made up most of his life for the last year and a half.

His date with Mary had gone better than work, at least (even if he still kind of smelt like vomit after three showers), but he still hadn't quite managed to connect with her. He wondered if he ever would with anyone again after Sherlock.

He sighed out loud and opened the door to his new flat, limping in.

He was taking his jacket off when he realised it.

He wasn't alone.

The doctor tried not to panic. It could be anything; he might have left a window open and one of those stray cats had wandered in again. It might just be a regular burglar, even if most people didn't view that as a bright side.

He knew it wasn't, the air felt thicker somehow, more ominous, but he could still cling onto that hope. He was in no state to fight, his limp had come back with a vengeance after that day at St Bart's, no matter how many times he told himself it wasn't real.

John padded almost silently in, not turning the lights on in case it provoked whoever was here.

When John finally saw his intruder he nearly had a heart attack.

He was sat in John's armchair, alone in the darkness aside from the meagre glow of the streetlight across the road outside. He was wearing one of those familiarly expensive suits, one leg crossed over the other in a way that was meant to seem casual but something was different. There was no smirk on his face, no look of victory, just a plain, serious expression. He hadn't looked up from staring at the wall when John had walked in, hadn't even blinked.

"Did you know?" he said very quietly, voice low but not filled with same menace as it had been before, more… empty. It made him seem all the more terrifying; there was nothing more dangerous than a man with nothing left to lose.

John pulled his gun from the waistband of his jeans. He'd been berating himself about keeping it with him even though he hadn't been getting into 'dangerous' situations since… since that day, but now he was thankful of his paranoia.

"Oh, put it away Johnny-boy, you're not impressing anybody." he said dismissively, still not looking up. "Just answer my question."

John walked around slowly, gun still raised and pointed at the intruder, not quite believing his eyes. "You're dead."

"Not yet." the consulting criminal said slowly as he closed his eyes and let his head fall back with a tired, humourless laugh. "First, I need an answer. Now."

"Answer to what?"

Moriarty looked up quickly, a spark of anger and impatience in his otherwise deadened eyes, and hissed "_Did. You. Know?_"

"Know what?"

The impatience was replaced by something else. What was that? Confusion? Surprise? A look that John had definitely never seen before on a face normally so sure of itself.

"He really didn't tell you, did he?"

"Didn't tell me what?" John's curiosity took over for a second and he lowered his gun slightly. He didn't bother asking who the 'he' was. It was Moriarty talking, he could only mean one person: Sherlock.

Moriarty stood up and John's guard went back up instantly. The criminal rolled his eyes.

"Come on, if I wanted you dead, I would have done it when you were on that ridiculously awkward date with your new receptionist and spared the poor woman some embarrassment."

John briefly wondered if could clean up a crime scene well enough to fool the police. _Sherlock could have_. a small voice at the back of his head reminded unhelpfully.

The consulting criminal slipped a hand into his jacket to remove a disc in a plastic wallet then skimmed it across the floor to John's feet.

"Do yourself a favour and watch this. It might get you out of the pit of self despair you're stuck in." There was the barest hint of a bitter smirk on his lips but it didn't reach his eyes. This was the most serious he'd ever seen Moriarty and he was shocked. Before he hadn't been able to even imagine him without a psychopathic giggle or an inappropriate grin.

John stared at him, unsure of how to react.

"By the way, tell your girlfriend… what's she going by these days? Mary? Tell her that if she's still looking for a more permanent job then I need a new sniper. She can't be your assistant forever."

"A sniper-?"

"You should get a better lock for your front door. Anyone could get in," he interrupted, ignoring the question and letting that ghost of a smirk cross his face again before pulling his jacket straight and walking out of the room without another word.

John heard the door open and shut again a second later and knew he was alone. He stared at the doorway the criminal had just left through, trying to process the conversation he'd just had. Eventually he put his gun on the coffee table and picked up the disc from the floor, carefully, like it could explode at any second. Knowing Moriarty, it probably could.

He turned on his laptop and slid the disc in, wondering what the hell it could be, what Sherlock hadn't told him.

The footage that started playing was grainy and in black and white. A french street name and a date and time, earlier that day, probably when he'd been out with Mary, were stamped in the corner.

It was obviously dark, wherever it was, but even with the shadows and low resolution picture he could make out the vague silhouette of a reasonably tall, male figure. Another man stepped around a corner into the shot, one hand holding a phone to his ear. The sound kicked in as his hand moved away from his ear slowly.

"I'd love to say I'm surprised but I'd be lying," a slightly distorted voice said. It seemed to be coming from the new-comer. "What did you expect me to do? Give myself up instantly muttering 'you cunning, cunning fiend!'?"

Even with such poor quality audio, John recognised the sound of a gunshot.

"No. I expect you to die."

John leant back quickly in shock. He took a deep breath and rewound it a few seconds back. He wasn't going insane, it was definitely what he thought it was.

That… that was Sherlock's voice. Was this some kind of sick joke? It seemed to take a few seconds for the other man to realise what was happening, collapsing heavily into his knees. The figure in the shadows, John refused to believe it was Sherlock yet, stepped out into the pool of light around a streetlight, kicking the other man back.

"You're dying but there's still time to hurt you. _Who are you working for?_"

The man on the floor laughed, albeit painfully. "What makes you think I'm not the boss now?"

"You're not clever enough to run anything alone."

What the fuck?

John kept watching, millions of thought rushing through his mind? It had to be fake or from before Sherlock had died. No-one could have survived a fall like that. But then again no-one should have been able to survive putting a bullet in their mouth and Jim Moriarty had definitely been sat in his living room.

What if it _was_ real?

John didn't know which would be worse, the scraps of hope being ripped away on a hoax or Sherlock having been alive for the last year and a half without telling him.

"If you insist." the Sherlock in the video said calmly and coldly and John heard two more shots. The other man sagged, dead.

Sherlock had shot that man in cold blood. John had no idea what he had done or if he had still been doing it but Sherlock had just _murdered him_.

"What the _fuck_?" he said, quietly but out loud this time, hoping it would make what he'd just seen make sense.

It didn't.

This was wrong. So wrong. John didn't understand. He needed answers.

John limped to the window, half expecting Moriarty to still be stood out there in the street but he was already gone.

And so was John's car.

Fantastic.


	3. Chapter 3

John got up the same as every morning despite what had happened. He wasn't entirely convinced that it hadn't been a horrible dream until he saw the DVD, still on the coffee table where he'd left it. He shuddered, sick to the pit of his stomach at the idea of just carrying on his normal, boring life after seeing that but he didn't know what else he could do. He was bright enough to know he wasn't anywhere near intelligent enough to find the consulting criminal again on his own without any apparent clues.

John sighed and turned on the television, turning it to the news as he wandered into the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea before he went to work. God, he'd have to catch the bus this morning with his car gone and that was _always_ fun. This week just got better and better. The officer he'd spoken to last night had been dismissive to the point of opposition of the loss of his car. John wasn't sure if it was a sentiment aimed specifically at him or if she'd had as long a day as he'd had. Either way, unless Moriarty actually brought his car back, it was unlikely it would get found.

He was still running on automatic despite the events of the previous night, doing exactly what've did every morning, until his mind caught up with what they'd been saying on the news.

"-Sources have confirmed the victim of the shooting in Paris last night is thought to be retired Colonel Sebastian Moran-"

That name. He recognised it. It had been on a case with Sherlock, one of the last they'd been on before… he didn't want to say Sherlock's death any more… before _that day_. Nothing had been proven, the case had been scheduled to go to court after the scandal, but Sherlock had been _convinced _that the man had been a sniper for Moriarty. Last night the criminal had said he needed a new sniper. The pieces started falling into place.

Sherlock would have worked it out the second Moriarty had made the remark about the sniper, but Sherlock wasn't here. Sherlock was the one who'd killed him.

The newsreader continued to go over the general details, when he'd left the army, why he was such a loss to society, all the usual crap people talked about when they found out someone was dead. It was a bigger piece than they normally did on a regular murder, as they always seemed to be when the victim was a soldier or a veteran or murdered abroad. They didn't mention how only two years ago he'd been suspected of more than twenty murders, but the record had probably been suppressed.

"His next of kin has been informed." The newsreader concluded.

John hadn't even realised the guy had any family. It was one of the things Sherlock had often left out, one of the things that he rarely thought was relevant unless they were the killer or a victim.

John took his phone out of his pocket, not quite believing what he was about to do.

"Hi, Greg."

"Hey John. If this is about Saturday, could it wait? I'm at work."

"No, it's about that guy that got killed in Paris yesterday."

There was a pause as the detective inspector considered what to say next. "Please tell me you don't know anything about that. The guy has suspected connections to just about every organised crime group in the world-"

"No, nothing like that. I knew him, worked with his battalion a few times in Afghanistan. I was wondering if you could get me some kind of contact details for his family. I wanted to send them a card or something, maybe ask when the funeral is."

He could feel Greg's disbelief radiating down the phone but didn't try to justify himself or fill the silence, that would have made the lie even more obvious.

"All right. Just give me a minute to look in the file."

"Thanks Greg."

"Yeah, well you're getting the first round." the DI grumbled. John heard papers being shuffled. "His next of kin is Jim Moran. Husband. That's all I can give you, John, and you didn't get it from me. I only just got them off my back about you and Sherlock."

Jim. That was enough for even John to know it was worth checking out. It _couldn't_ just be a coincidence.

"Thanks."

"And, look, I can't stop you getting involved but if you find anything, give it to the police. We're running out of leads on both sides of the Channel."

"I'm only going to call him up and give him my condolences, Greg."

"Yeah. Of course."

John could tell the detective inspector didn't believe him for even a second but he stuck to his story. "Still up for the pub on Saturday?"

"Yeah. Doubt I'll catch any cases before then." Lestrade said with a sigh. It had been hard for him since the scandal surrounding Sherlock's fall. John suspected that Mycroft was the only reason Greg hadn't lost his job but even though he was still working, he was out of favour with the bosses.

"See you then."

"Yeah, see you later."

John did feel a slight twinge of guilt for lying to one of his few remaining friends but he couldn't give the DVD to the police yet. They might even already have been sent a copy, he didn't know.

All he did know was that he had a name now, and that meant he was one step closer to finding that son of a bitch.


	4. Chapter 4

A quick google search before work had revealed Sebastian Moran's Facebook profile. It was private, which was probably to be expected when the user was a contract killer, but the photo was all he needed. It was the face of the Moran, one of the photos that had been in all the news reports but newer than the ones Sherlock had got hold of a few years ago, and Moriarty. He didn't look like he had two nights ago, world-weary, deadened but somehow furious, more like the first time they'd met him, as "Jim from IT". They were both wearing sunglasses and looking… happy.

It seemed wrong somehow, how they got that and all John had for every good thing he'd ever done was a limp and a betrayal. He was stuck in with crap job, a tiny flat, even his car had been stolen as the grand prize for not shooting Moriarty on the spot like he maybe should have done. It hadn't been a great car, to be fair, a 1999 Vauxhall Corsa with sun-bleached red paint he couldn't afford to have re-sprayed, uncomfortable seats and a heater that had never worked but that wasn't the point. It had been his, and like everything he'd had in the last year and a half, it had been taken away from him.

So now John was sat in the back of a cab after a long morning shift he'd spent in anticipation and a train ride which had felt even longer, trying not to let his anger (or excitement) show and waiting for it to arrive in some suburb just outside Sheffield. A more in-depth search through one of Sherlock's old contacts had revealed that Jim Moran was a lecturer at the University of Sheffield but John didn't believe for a second that was more than a cover story, like Sebastian Moran's of being a lawyer. They might do those jobs officially but no-one would be able to give up the levels of power and control Moriarty had over crime in the UK, not voluntarily.

The cab stopped in front of a relatively pleasant looking detached house on a street of a similarly nice assortment of semi-detached houses and ones that looked similar to the one he was outside. Not the sort of villainous mountain lair he'd almost been expecting, although it was built on a large hill.

He paid the driver and waited for the cab to leave before looking around the street. There were only a few scattered cars, most people still being at work at this time of the day. John walked up to the door and checked the house number with the one he'd written on his hand earlier.

Definitely the right place. John had half expected there to be journalists camped on the lawn but Moriarty had probably found a way around that. He didn't have any excuses now, he realised, looking around again then removing his gun from his jacket.

He shot the lock off the door, wincing at how loud it was as the birds in the wood on the other side of the road flew up from the trees, but no-one came running to see what the noise was so he guessed he was safe for now. He opened the door slowly and slipped through, closing it behind him.

John didn't know what he'd expected of a Consulting Criminal's house but it wasn't this. No human heads mounted on the walls, for one thing. In fact, there didn't seem to be anything that wouldn't be found in an ordinary house. A couple of coats were on hooks in the hallway, shoes thrown haphazardly underneath. Letters, mostly bills, and a bowl of keys on a cheap sideboard and a bookcase filled with a mismatched assortment of academic journals and battered paperback thriller novels. Nothing particularly unusual about that, not with the occupants' apparent jobs and lives.

He walked cautiously into the dark kitchen, not knowing what to expect after the hallway.

The cupboards were full of… well, exactly what he'd expect a normal household's cupboards to contain. Cans of beans, biscuits, enough food for two people who weren't that passionate about cooking. A lot of coffee but not much tea, a sort of vague suggestion that they only kept it around for guests who did drink it. Half a bottle of semi-skimmed milk which had gone out of date yesterday, a couple of bottles of beer, all the other usual things found in fridges. No body parts, which had been a usual thing in the fridge back at Baker Street. Nothing even hinting that at least one of the people who lived there was a criminal mastermind, but what was he expecting? A .45 in the fruit bowl?

He was almost disappointed no-one was in the house yet but maybe Moriarty was still at work. John couldn't imagine what the guy was supposed to teach, and frankly he wasn't sure he cared, but at least it gave him more time to snoop around the house. John wasn't sure what he was looking for exactly, he realised as he walked up the stairs as quietly as he could. He just hoped he found it.

He heard the front door creak open when he was still halfway up the stairs and froze.

"I know you're here." Moriarty called out. From him, it should have been in a lighter, more threatening but more sing-song tone but it wasn't, his voice just flat as it was two days ago. When John held his breath instead of saying anything, the criminal padded through the hallway into the kitchen. He came out again several seconds later with one of the beers that had been in the fridge. He wasn't dressed like John remembered, not in the costume of Moriarty or any of the other people he'd pretended to be. He was wearing a black polo shirt, jeans, and an old hoodie that was several times too big for his slim frame and seemed to be swaying slightly as he stood still, but that didn't stop him from being intimidating.

John walked down the stairs as confidently as he could when he was already running for the door internally.

"You shot the lock off my door. It's not exactly something I wouldn't notice. I left it open for you, John, did you even check?" Moriarty sighed, looking mournfully at the damage but not seeming particularly intimidated, despite the gun aimed at his head. "I'll have to replace that on a teacher's wage, you know."

John didn't speak, slightly shocked at how calm he was at being discovered.

"So?" he said, arching an eyebrow as he opened the bottle.

"So what?"

"Why are you here?

John hesitated. Why _was_ he here? He hadn't been entirely convinced he was in the right house, even the right town.

"You took my car."

Moriarty nodded, reaching towards a drawer in the sideboard.

"Don't move!"

"Do you want your car back or not?"

"How do I know you're not going for a gun?"

"This is my house. My neighbours have kids. I'm not going to leave deadly weapons everywhere. Do you always ask so many stupid questions?"

John's eyes narrowed slightly but Moriarty just rolled his dark eyes and threw John's keys at him.

"Now get out."

"No. I need to know what the hell is going on."

The criminal's fists clenched involuntarily.

"If I find out, I'll let you know." He said through gritted teeth.

"Like you don't already know."

"I don't. If I did," his face contorted into a snarl. "Sherlock Holmes would be dead."

"He is dead!"

"So a _ghost_ shot Sebastian?"

"I'm not saying that, I'm saying there has to be a mistake! Sherlock wouldn't do that, he…" John hesitated. "He… he would have told me!"

And that was the root of it, wasn't it? John knew, _knew_ in the bottom of his heart that Sherlock had killed that man, whether he'd deserved it or not. But that wasn't where the John had a problem. He'd been betrayed. He'd thought, even after what he'd said at St Bart's, that Sherlock trusted him as much as he'd trusted Sherlock. But he hadn't. He'd left John's life to slowly get worse, through the scandal and the court case and all the other bullshit he'd had to deal with _alone_.

He was brought back out of his regret by Moriarty's elbow colliding with his chin and the gun being twisted out of his hand as he fell to the floor.

He looked up at the Irishman, the gun held casually but in a way that John knew meant that he carried firearms more often than most.

"Just get it over with."

Moriarty shook his head, checking the safety on the weapon then dropping it at John's feet. "I can't shoot you here."

"Why not?"

"I have neighbours."

John laughed bitterly. "And they're not used to the screams yet?"

"I don't mix business with pleasure."

"Killing me would be pleasure?"

He looked at John, unimpressed by both his deduction and his continued presence. "Get. Out."

"You've already said you can't kill me here."

"I can't kill you," Moriarty said, regaining his calm fairly quickly. "But you know what I can do? Call the police."

"_What?_"

"You broke into my house, now you're threatening me with a gun." Moriarty said quietly.

"You wouldn't."

"I could." He shrugged.

John blinked. "Why?"

"I'm already too drunk to win in a fair fight." The younger man said, flashing a smirk. "If I was sober, you'd already be dead."

"Drunk?" The criminal seemed as stone-cold sober than he'd ever been, probably more so.

"My husband just died Johnny. I have an excuse to drink." He picked up the bottle of beer from the sideboard again, raising it in the air in John's direction in some kind of sarcastic toast to his enemy, then drank the whole thing without coming up for breath.

"Now, if it's all the same to you, I'm just going to… sleep…" Moriarty yawned as he leant back against the wall. He slid down it silently, apparently unconscious before he hit the ground.


	5. Chapter 5

**Sorry about the wait for this, I was finishing my A-levels up then panicking about starting uni then actually starting uni and... Well, y'know, real life bullshit piles up. No real excuse for leaving this so long without an update. Anyways, here you go. Hope it's worth the wait.**

**I've done some quick editing and formatting on the first four chapters too, but nothing that effects the plot if you can't be bothered to read it again.**

* * *

Jim's head was pounding even before he woke up, somehow. It was the first thing he noticed as he slowly came around.

As he became more aware of his surroundings, he realised he'd been asleep on his sofa. That wasn't right. He remembered passing out on the floor in the hallway, much to his embarrassment. That wasn't a particularly dignified thing to do, especially in front of a man who was still his enemy, even if he had spent most of the day drinking.

Oh, god.

The reason he'd been drinking hit Jim like a sledgehammer, knocking the breath from his body and making him wretch against his empty stomach.

He suddenly didn't care that he'd passed out, more wishing that he hadn't had to regain consciousness at all. It didn't seem worth waking up to a world without Seb in it. It didn't really seem like a real world at all, but Sherlock Holmes was still out there. Before he could even consider taking more direct action to join Sebastian, he needed to change that, and make sure it was permanent this time.

Jim opened his eyes slowly, retinas burning at the intrusion of the bright sunlight. John Watson was sat in a chair opposite him that he'd obviously dragged in from the dining room, gun still in hand, steady and ready to fire. Jim easily deduced that he hadn't slept for the whole night. Why he'd stayed was a completely different question.

"Good morning." Jim said softly, attempting to put on one of his old smirks but failing. It was hard for him to find any of his good humour now. The sentiment he'd spent so long trying to distance himself from now hurt all the more every time he tried to dismiss it.

Watson didn't reply and Jim rolled his eyes.

"It's rude to ignore people, Johnny." He said, letting a familiar darkness fill his voice. That was easier than smiling, at least. The rage behind it was all real, rather than just a technique to terrify as it sometimes had been in the past. "Why are you still here?"

"I couldn't just leave you alone, passed out drunk without a front door."

"Didn't know you cared." Jim said quietly, sitting up. He groaned and held his head in his hands, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles in an attempt to stop them throbbing at the light. He hadn't had a hangover this bad in years.

"I don't."

Jim shook his head dismissively and stood up, even stiffer than usual from sleeping on the sofa. He rolled his shoulders and stretched, trying in vain to loosen the thick knot of scar tissue at the back of his neck. "You could have killed me at any time last night, but you didn't."

"What if I wanted to wait until you knew it was happening?"

Jim rolled his eyes again. "Put the gun away."

Watson looked like he was about to argue, but then closed his mouth, nodded and slipped the gun back in his waistband. If he hadn't done so far, it was unlikely he'd find the nerve to shoot now and even an idiot like Watson would know that Jim knew that too. All the same, he got a twinge of amusement out of Johnny obeying his orders without being threatened, although not enough to force a smile onto his face.

"Where are you going?"

"To get dressed. I'm not wearing these for any real business." He gestured at his clothes, especially Seb's old hoodie. It was one of the ones he'd worn to the gym or while doing DIY. Even after last night's drinking it smelt of him, and Jim didn't want to waste that.

Watson didn't try to stop him as he walked past, heading upstairs.

Jim stepped into the bathroom and took a long look at himself in the mirror above the sink. He looked terrible; exhaustion and hangover showing in his bloodshot eyes and the bags around them. He sighed slightly and took a small tube of concealer from the bathroom cupboard and smoothed it onto his blotchy skin. Not much he could do about the eyes.

He glanced down at the pill bottles on the shelf below the mirror; all his. Anti-depressants, anti-psychotics, a cocktail of drugs that had kept his more extreme mood swings and… bad habits… in check for these last few years. He'd finally started to feel like a human, after so many years of being totally apart from that. As much as it pained him to let go of his weak link to a normal life, for what he was going to do he needed to be Moriarty again and that couldn't happen unless he was as unstable as before. He frowned slightly as he turned to leave the bathroom.

No going back now. Closure through vengeance was a cliche he'd never believed in before but when he thought about Sebastian laid on a pavement, dying alone from that bastard's bullets, his fingers clenched into tight fists, nails marking his palms again. He couldn't get any satisfaction, sat in a house so empty now that it felt obscene, still pretending to be an innocent, a teacher of all the things he could have been. That identity had died on a street corner in Paris along with any willing Jim had to be normal.

He stepped into the bedroom, tugging off his clothes violently and leaving them in a heap at the bottom of the bed before almost reverently pulling on the only suit he'd brought with him from London and his past life, the same one he'd worn to threaten Watson the several nights before. It was a few years out of date now but still a gorgeous suit, practically unworn since he'd only bought it a few short weeks before the confrontation on the rooftop. He made a mental note to visit his tailor when he got back to London. He'd need a new wardrobe but maybe this one could be altered to whatever would more closely match the latest styles.

Jim took a deep breath to regain his composure stepped in front of the mirror.

It was like the last two years hadn't happened.

Jim tried a smirk. It didn't reach his eyes. He didn't expect it to. He didn't _want_ it to, not so soon. There wasn't much else he could do about his appearance.

It wasn't like Watson noticed any of the imperfections in his disguise as he started walking back downstairs, reflexively taking a step back when he saw Jim back in his Westwood.

Jim opened the door and turned. "Are you coming?"

"What?"

"You want answers as much as I do, John. I thought we could have a civilised conversation with neither of us ending up with a gun to their head."


End file.
